


Habeas Corpus

by Guede



Series: The Marriage of Heaven and Hell [9]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Angst and Humor, Crack Treated Seriously, Going to Hell, Guilt, Imprisonment, M/M, Magic, Male Character of Color, Multi, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reunions, Self-Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 04:48:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6224602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drogba does the foxes a favor and Raúl repays an old debt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Habeas Corpus

Alberto was very, very lost. He tried his phone again, only to find that the battery had died while the thing had been trying to load its GPS app. Grimacing, he shoved it back into his pocket and sighed heavily; he’d only had the phone for about a week and it used up a lot more power a lot faster than his old one had. He looked up and down the mostly empty street, then half-heartedly consulted the scrap of paper in his hand, on which the address he was looking for was written.

“You looking for somebody?” asked a man.

“Oh. Oh, yes, I am, and if you could please tell me…” Then Alberto actually saw the man talking to him and the man’s two friends and promptly shut up. He’d be the first to admit he wasn’t the quickest one around, but even he knew when someone was trying to mug him. “Oh…look, I really don’t think that—”

The one on the left grabbed Alberto’s right arm as he raised it in front of himself, while the one in the middle grinned widely. “Don’t be thinking,” he said. “Just—”

There was a loud roar and this big black poof came out of Alberto’s chest, aiming straight for the man in the middle. He winced and grabbed at it, and got a double handful of fur. “Cesc! Cesc, don’t!”

Cesc kept roaring and wiggling, so that Alberto could barely keep hold of him. Alberto whirled around, terrified that someone else might’ve seen the giant snapping monster head sticking out of his chest. He didn’t see anyone but he still jumped behind a pile of garbage bags. Then he started frantically patting at Cesc with his hands, till finally the fox demon dropped the illusion and was his normal fox shape.

“Did you see their faces?” Cesc said, grinning. “They were totally pissing themselves, weren’t they?”

Alberto then realized that the muggers had gone too. He peeked cautiously out from behind the bags, then sagged against the wall, clutching Cesc to his front. When Cesc squeaked, he loosened his grip but he didn’t get off the wall. “You can’t just go around scaring people like that,” he said. “What if they tell somebody?”

“It’s okay, Gila. Nobody else was around and those jerks were definitely hopped up, so nobody’s gonna believe them if they even try to tell somebody.” No longer grinning, Cesc pushed himself up Alberto’s chest and put his paws on Alberto’s chin so that they were at eye-level with each other. “I just didn’t want you to get sliced up like in some slasher film. And they so wanted your phone, they were looking at it when you had it out, and if they’d taken that Gianluigi would have tracked them down and—”

“Oh. Right. That would be worse for them,” Alberto muttered. He put his head back against the wall and took a long, deep breath. Then he pushed off the wall, cradling Cesc so that if he had to, he could shove the demon around his neck and pretend Cesc was a weird scarf. “He was so happy about figuring out the phone plan and overage charges and everything when he got it for me, and it would take an angel to figure out those things…I just wish I could use it properly. I don’t suppose you know where we are?”

Cesc twisted around and looked into the street. Then he twisted back and peered over Alberto’s shoulder. “Um. No? I’m sorry, I just don’t come this way much. I think Joan or maybe Xavi does…but they’re not here right now and that’s not gonna help.”

“Well, at least we tried?” Alberto said. He didn’t sound convincing even to himself, and when he checked his watch, he had even less reason to be pleased. “Oh, damn. Gianluigi’s going to be home in a half-hour, and that’s not even enough time to get you back to Figo’s. I think I’m just going to have to give up and try again tomorrow on my lunch break.”

“Who are you looking for?” asked someone in a polite voice.

Both Cesc and Alberto jumped. Then Cesc flipped around and was snarling almost before Alberto could get a good grip on him. “Listen, please don’t try to hurt me, I don’t have much money and also I don’t really know how well you’re going to deal with knowing about de—”

“My apologies,” said the man with a smile and a little nod. Then he did the same thing to Cesc, who abruptly stopped snarling and just stared at him. “I didn’t mean to surprise either of you. My name is Florent and I…have a feeling that you might be looking for my friend.”

Florent was a tall, handsome man with skin the color of coffee just after the milk had been added and before it’d been stirred in, and his hair done in neat cornrows. He had a pronounced French accent but his clothes were Italian, and wouldn’t make Alberto blink if they’d met at the restaurant. He also gave off that little _tingle_ that these days Alberto knew meant magic.

“Maybe,” Cesc said after a long moment. “We’re not really looking for him. Figo wants to know if he’ll stop by the next time he’s in town. He’s sorry they missed each other before, but he was on vacation.”

“I heard. I hope he had a good trip?” Without pausing for a reply, Florent turned around and began to walk down the street. “I’ll let my friend know. He’ll be here Monday, and maybe they can catch each other then.”

“Thanks,” Alberto called after him. Then he felt Cesc move and looked down to make sure he wasn’t letting a limb slip or anything like that.

When he looked up again, Florent was gone. At this point Alberto didn’t think that that was weird—the other day he’d actually gone and eeped when he’d looked up and Alice had _still_ been in the hall instead of vanishing like Zlatan—but something about the whole meeting bothered him. He couldn’t really put his finger on it, but it just didn’t feel like it’d gone how it was supposed to go, and not just because he’d embarrassed himself again.

“Okay, we can go now,” Cesc muttered, moving around again. He squeezed back into Alberto’s coat and started to go flat from the tail up. “C’mon, let’s go home and tell Figo and let him take care of it.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” Alberto said. It really wasn’t his business, and he was sure that Figo would see to whatever it was. He buttoned up his coat over the Cesc-shadow and then set about trying to remember where he’d parked his car.

* * *

Florent paused just after opening the door. He sniffed the air, then sighed and came into the room, shutting the door behind him as soon as he could. “Did you have to cook that up in here?” he said. “My landlord’s already been up twice this month about bad smells, because of that nosy bastard at the end of the hall.”

“Open the window,” came the muffled answer from the kitchen.

Sighing, Florent tossed down his coat on the nearest piece of furniture and went over to the window. He got it up, then stood back and caught his breath; the frame had stuck pretty hard for a few seconds before it’d started to slide. Then he turned around. He looked at the translucent, slightly reddish cloud hanging in front of his kitchen, then walked over to it.

Didier was standing over a big pot on the stove. He peered into it, then poked at its contents with a long-handled wooden spoon. The corners of his mouth twitched down, then slowly rose. He dipped up a bit in the spoon, sipped it and grinned. Then he tossed the spoon into the sink next to him and turned around. “Perfect,” he said. He paused. “That’s dinner, Flo. The bones are in the fridge.”

Florent sighed in relief. Then he blinked. He looked hard at Didier, who shrugged helplessly, and then yanked open the fridge. And there were the freshly-boiled bones for the scrying, piled up in a pot next to his milk and his steaks for tomorrow night’s dinner. He made a face, then slumped over the fridge door and looked back at Didier, who was not trying very hard to not laugh at him. “Didi, honestly?” Florent said. “I have a cooler and I know you know where it is.”

“I’m sorry.” Didier smiled, the wide bright one he used for people he wanted to feel safe. Then he took a step back and waved Florent towards him. “Come here and try it. It’s good.”

“It’s goat,” Florent muttered, recognizing the smell now. Not a meat he would usually touch.

But for some reason Florent went over anyway. He sniffed dubiously at the pot, then eyed the bit of meat on the spoon Didier was trying to hand him. He was putting out his hand to take it when Didier sighed and jammed the spoon towards him. Startled, Florent opened his mouth to exclaim something and suddenly it was full.

“It’s all right,” Florent said after some chewing. He frowned, then nodded his head. “I’ll eat it. But why does it smell like a slaughterhouse in here? Did you kill the goat— _Didi_ —the next words out of your mouth better be that it’s not still hanging in my shower—”

Didier merely smiled and walked out of the kitchen. Florent tossed the spoon aside and started after him, only to jump when some sort of alarm went off. It took a moment for him to realize it was coming from the oven; he turned off the heat, briefly considered checking into a hotel for the rest of Didier’s stay, and then sighed and peeked into the oven. Oh. Vegetables. That smelled like food, and not like dead animal. At least the man could cook.

While Florent was taking out the vegetables, he heard a sort of scrabbling noise and a thud from the other room. He figured it was Didier, so he went ahead and set the pan on the stove, then kicked the oven door shut and wandered into the living room. “Look, Didi, I told you I can always borrow the key to the roof if you have to do some slaughtering…”

“Hello,” said the demon in Florent’s living room. He was on the short side and his ears were sticking out of the top of his head. They were furry and triangular and black, same as his hair, and to be honest, looked a little fake: too much like a stuffed toy. But he was clearly a demon. “I…is this a bad time?”

Didier glanced at Florent, who threw up his hands and looked heavenwards, wondering why on earth he’d ever decided to buy a nemesis a drink.

When Florent dropped his head, Didier and the fox-demon were deep in conversation. “No, he’d still like to see you,” the fox-demon said. “This is separate business, for us only. But we and Luís do have an understanding and any help you offered us, he’d certainly…know about. If you can’t help, we’d understand.”

“And he would know that too,” Didier said dryly. He lifted his steepled hands and pressed the tips of his index fingers to his mouth. Then the steeple turned into an interlaced grip, save for the index fingers that now pointed at the fox demon. “I am between jobs at the moment, but I am waiting on something. When that comes, I have to leave. But I can see if I can fit your request in. I’ll need to know more.”

“Luís said tomorrow’s fine for him. We can talk to you there as well.” The fox-demon looked for Didier’s nod, and when he had it, stepped backwards into the wall—onto it, as he melted into a silhouette that momentarily hung in place like some sort of large decorating sticker.

Then it flowed down to the floor and in the blink of an eye, it’d slipped across the room and squeezed out through a shut window. Florent went over and checked to see that the demon hadn’t jarred up the sash, then ran his finger across the sill. In his finger’s wake, glowing protective sigils lighted up in blue and green and then faded away.

“I took what I needed to off so that he could come in,” Didier said. “I’ll redo them.”

“No, I’ll do it. If you’re not going to be taking any more house calls now,” Florent muttered. He looked over his shoulder at Didier, then sighed and rolled off the window to the wall next to it. He leaned against that and raised his brows at the other man. “You’re waiting for something? I thought you were visiting me. I don’t know why I put up with you sometimes.”

Didier grinned again. He didn’t look chagrined or like he’d been caught out in anything, but he didn’t say what was the truth either. He came over and as Florent straightened up, put his hands up on the wall on either side of Florent. Then he dipped his head. Florent breathed in sharply, but the air he sucked in was unexpectedly cool with the lack of another body’s warmth. That warmth was up against the side of his face, making his skin almost tingle as Didier craned his mouth towards Florent’s ear.

“Do you want to eat yet?” Didier asked quietly. His hand brushed the top of Florent’s hip, so light that Florent wasn’t even sure what it was till Didier put his hand flat against his belly. Not hard but definitely there, its weight dragging Florent’s untucked shirt taut. “Hungry?”

“For goat?” Florent snorted. He breathed out, then grabbed Didier by a double-handful of shirt and pulled him into a hard kiss.

The window was shut but the blind was up. Not that Florent remembered till he heard it rattling down. He glanced across, then gasped and hitched up the wall as Didier’s mouth latched onto the underside of his jaw, using teeth and lips to get the nerves there sparking. Didier took his hand off the blind cord and clamped Florent’s wrists to the wall, and then, excruciatingly slow, worked his mouth down Florent’s body. He went from skin to cloth, leaving bits of Florent’s shirt stuck to Florent’s skin, and then from cloth to skin as he nosed up under the hem of Florent’s shirt. Florent hissed and pulled at his hands.

His hands stayed against the wall. Didier opened up his fly with teeth alone—another flash of white, one that made Florent’s knees shake—and then swallowed down Florent’s cock without so much as a change in breath. Florent drove his head back against the wall, then squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on trying to stay on his feet.

He just about managed it, though when Didier finally let him go, he immediately slid sideways to grab onto the sill. Didier got gracefully up, still with that calm, unapologetic smile on his face, and brushed his lips over Florent’s brow. Then he turned, tugging at his clothes, and went into the kitchen.

“I do know,” Florent said to himself. He gave himself a shake, and then another as he finally pushed off the wall. Then he pulled up his jeans and slowly followed the other man.

* * *

“He’s staying with a man named Florent Malouda,” Raúl said. “Late twenties, French Guyanese, I think.”

Luís grunted in acknowledgment, but didn’t look up from his book. He made another note on the notepad he had out, then flipped a few pages. Then he reached out and moved his water-glass before Mori, sitting next to him, could knock it over.

Mori looked embarrassed and sat on his hands, but pulled them right back out to gesture for more details. “Mage?”

“He sure felt like one, but I didn’t have any trouble putting that tracker on him,” Cesc piped up from the floor. He alone of the three of them was in fox-form, apparently because his tail needed grooming. He pawed at a tiny bit of matted fur.

“He’s not a natural one,” Raúl said. “He’s like Gila. Somebody brought him back.”

Cesc dropped his tail and in an instant was in human form, leaning over Raúl to stare him hard in the face. He barely moved as Mori pulled at his arm, telling him to get back. “He’s a _resurrection_?”

“Really?” Luís had also gotten interested and had dropped the book. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, it fits into Drogba’s line of work, so that’s not a surprise, really. Except that I would’ve thought he’d have angels after him for pulling a stunt like that.”

“I don’t think—” Raúl started. Then he and everybody else looked up at the doorway.

Zinedine looked faintly chagrined, but Raúl guessed it was more due to the kit that’d just hopped onto the top of Zinedine’s head, yipping gleefully, than to interrupting. “Luís?” he said. “I found where you packed the—”

“Oh, excellent. Raúl, let me know if you need anything special for Drogba,” Luís said, getting up. He stuck the notepad into the book, shut the book and then went with Zinedine and the kit into the other room.

“Well, there goes them for a half-hour,” Cesc said. He yelped indignantly when Mori poked him, then plopped into Luís’ seat with a wounded look. “What? Ever since those two came back from the desert, they’ve been banging around the clock. It’s great that Figo didn’t end up killing Zinedine’s weirdo relatives and all, but c’mon.”

“You’re just mad that Zinedine doesn’t do threesomes, you greedy little bastard.” Villa loped in from the hall and dropped the mail on the table. Then he put his hands behind his back and pushed till his spine cracked. He grunted and pulled out another chair. “Speaking of angels, I haven’t run into any all day, and Xavi says Gianluigi’s being even more of a shit than usual. Weird, I think.”

Cesc shot Villa a dirty look as he started to get out of his seat.

“No, you’re not going over to see if Paolo or Sandro are ‘flipping out,’” Raúl said. “I know Gila’s working today and it’ll be hours before you come back.”

“It would not. I know the difference between social time and…and…what is this, anyway? It’s not work,” Cesc muttered, sitting back down. He held onto the pout for a few seconds, while Villa rolled his eyes at him, and then made a face at Villa’s back. Then he looked at Raúl. “Speaking of that, what are we going to tell Drogba about Zlatan?”

Mori drummed his fingers on the table. “What, they haven’t met?”

Cesc shrugged and looked at Raúl, who had to shrug as well. He’d tried all his usual connections, but none of them had come up with much on Drogba. Apparently the man spent eight or nine months of the year working in Africa, and Raúl wasn’t on great terms with the fox tribes down there. “I think someone like Drogba would’ve at least have heard of Zlatan,” Raúl said.

“Yeah, but what did he hear?” Villa snorted. “The part about Zlatan being an asshole who eats anybody that bothers him or the part where Zlatan’s all smushy about a couple of ex-angels running a restaurant? Neither one of those is somebody you want to take you to—”

“Look, we’ll deal with that if it comes up. It hasn’t yet. And anyway, it doesn’t matter if they don’t like each other if Zlatan hasn’t even agreed to this.” Raúl looked at Villa.

“No way!” Cesc sat up straight, openmouthed, and turned first to Raúl and then to an even more disgruntled-looking Villa. “No way. You sent _him_ to sound out Zlatan?”

Villa flicked a couple fingers Cesc’s way. “He tried to eat you.”

“He tossed you across the room for looking at him funny! At least I was threatening him with bodily harm!” Cesc cried.

Raúl resisted the urge to groan but had to put his face in his hands for a moment. He breathed in and out, and then looked to the side as a hand squeezed his shoulder. Mori gave him an encouraging smile, which was nice, and then gave Villa a smack to the back of the head, which was effective.

“Anyway,” Villa said, shoulders hunched, rubbing the smacked spot and glowering at Mori. “Zlatan says Figo talked to him and convinced him. Just so long as we don’t talk about what Figo does during sex around him. _Cesc_.”

Eye-roll from Cesc. “Like he doesn’t know why Figo would take our side. He and Sandro totally get kinkier, too, with all those kitchen tools.”

“Enough,” Raúl snapped. He rubbed at the side of his face, then pushed back from the table and stood up. “Stop with the bickering. I don’t care—it doesn’t matter what we all think of each other, all right? What matters is that we make this work. Or else we’ll lose them forever and I refuse to allow that. Does everyone understand?”

Mori nodded right away. Villa and Cesc exchanged a last set of looks before also nodding. Still, they all looked committed, so Raúl breathed a secret sigh of relief and sent them off on their next set of tasks. Then he made a quick trip to the dens to check on his family.

When he came back, Villa was still hanging around. Before Raúl could say anything, Villa held up his hands. “I’ll get going in a sec. I just wanted to know something,” Villa said almost snappishly.

“Yes?” Raúl asked after a long moment.

“You really…look, are you doing this because you think you have to, or something? Because I know I disagree with you a lot, but you’ve been a good leader.” On the last part Villa hunched his shoulders and ducked his head so that he looked like he had no neck. He stared at the floor, then jerked his head savagely up, like he thought he was going to be punished for his words. “It was all personal stuff. The other things, I never had a problem with. It’s not like we need them.”

Raúl bit his lip. For a moment he didn’t know whether he wanted to smack or to hug Villa.

He finally settled for a wry smile and keeping his distance from the other man. “I appreciate what you’re saying, but it’s about taking care of our own, Villa. I would never have left you in a fight and you wouldn’t have left me. And I know you’re a little young to remember, but they stayed for us. So it’s only right that we go back for them, now that we have a proper home.”

“I’m not that young, and you’re not that old,” Villa snapped. Then he grimaced. He put his hand up and pushed at his hair, then looked at Raúl from under that hand. “I’m not trying to be a coldblooded bastard, all right? I’d like them back too. I just don’t know if it’s a good idea to do something that isn’t guaranteed to get them back _and_ that could kill you too.”

“I’ve thought about that. And this is the way I think best balances the risks and the chance of success.” Raúl spread his hands. “If you can think of a better way, please tell me.”

Villa glowered at Raúl, then sighed. “You know fucking well I can’t. I just don’t like having to trust somebody we don’t know.”

“Well, Figo can’t do it, all right?” Raúl said, getting a little impatient. Everything Villa was saying was justified, but they were also objections that’d already been raised and discussed to death. “He’s not the right kind of mage. So either we hope that Drogba takes the job, or else the only other one I know of who might be able to pull it off is Kaká, and if you want to try convincing him to—”

“Even if he could get over the idea of helping demons, he’d flip out at crunch time,” Villa snorted. “We’ve seen him, he can never hold it together, and now he’s got his Fallen One around permanently to give him even more fits.”

Raúl raised his brows.

“I _know_ ,” Villa snapped. Then he jammed his fists into his hips and looked up. He breathed roughly in and out before abruptly turning on his heel. “Just don’t fucking flip out yourself,” he said. “Silva and I are going to stop over at the park on the way back, all right? He’s been indoors for weeks doing your research and needs a good run.”

“Fine,” Raúl said. He watched Villa go before turning back to the table.

After a moment, Raúl sat back down. He put his elbows up on the table, then rested his chin on his hands and breathed in deeply, staring at the wall.

* * *

As sure as Didier seemed of himself, Florent wasn’t about to brush off two mages of the caliber of Didier and Figo meeting up. So when the time came, he made sure that he had his off-day and was ready at the door. Didier glanced at him, then let Florent tag along behind him with a sort of bemused air. He wasn’t really amused, but he wasn’t angry either, so he didn’t think it was going to end in another mess like Marseille or London. Florent hoped not; he liked Milan a lot more than he’d thought, and would hate to have to move again.

Figo met them at the door of his bookshop, while a full-blooded _hawk_ -demon watched impassively from an upstairs window: Figo did have serious connections. Some authorities weren’t even sure that hawk-demons should be classified as demons at all, given that they seemed to have initially risen independently of the angel-demon divide.

“Didier,” Figo said, extending a hand. He smiled broadly. “So sorry to have missed you. It’s always interesting when you come to town.”

They hugged and Didier introduced Florent, and then Figo invited them inside. “But…I don’t think that I was responsible for the main event this time?” Didier said, blinking with faux-innocence. “Your colleague, Father Thuram, and his…”

“Colleague.” Figo didn’t do anything so crude as to tense or to flatten out his voice, but somehow Florent had the impression Figo either wasn’t impressed with or didn’t like Kaká. “Yes, well, I’ve had part of the story from them. I would like to hear it from you now.”

“There isn’t much to say.” Didier shrugged. Then he looked past Figo’s left shoulder, at a young man and woman reordering books on a nearby bookcase. He stared at them long enough for Florent to belatedly check their shadows and see the fox ears and tails, then turned away, grinning. “Kaká interrupted a favor I was doing for an old family friend. We spoke a little about what it means to have and to find justice, and then I left.”

Florent wasn’t particularly interested in that story—he hadn’t been around for it either, but Didier had already filled him in and hotheaded religious zealots like Kaká were common enough—so he wandered off into one of the aisles. Historical fiction. He took one book off the shelf and skimmed the summary on its inside cover, then put it back up. Then he took down another book and two gleaming eyes were staring from the gap.

He barely kept himself from shouting out. Florent did stumble back, but caught himself before Figo or Didier noticed. Then he gave the fox-demon a sharp look. “Very nice of you,” he said.

The demon squeezed out and dropped to a lower, emptier shelf where it could sit up. “Okay,” it said—it was a he. “Hi. I’m Xavi. You’re the one who’s been watching over the cemeteries on the north side for the last eight months.”

“Yes.” Florent glanced back, only to find Didier and Figo missing. He took a step out of the aisle and just glimpsed the two men in a back office, laughing and talking. After a moment, he turned back to the demon. “Florent Malouda. You go over there?”

Xavi had gotten off the shelf and turned into a short, black-haired man with enormous, alert eyes. “No, but they used to be crawling with unsettled spirits that’d get all over the city. It’s nice to not have that problem anymore.”

“You’re welcome,” Florent said after a long pause. He smiled wryly at Xavi, then raised his hand before the demon could answer. “So. What exactly did you all want with—”

The wards tingled slightly, recognizing someone that then banged on the door as if they wanted to break it down. “Oh,” Xavi said. “Must be Zlatan.”

“Zlatan? Zlatan, as in the Godzilla demon Zlatan?” Florent said. He backed up and tried to find Didier again, but the other man wasn’t in sight.

Xavi blinked. “I always thought he looked more like those dinosaurs from _Jurassic Park_. You know, not the T-Rex but the…the…”

“The raptors?” Florent winced as Zlatan beat the door again. Then he looked out of the aisle as Figo, loudly telling Zlatan to stop breaking his things, crossed the room towards the door. “Well, I’ve never seen his demon form except in books. But his kind breathe fire, don’t they?”

“Yeah, but they don’t have those funny spikes on the back,” Xavi pointed out. “And he’s got longer legs than Godzilla. The original one—I don’t know what the remake was supposed to be, or why people would find that scary. It just looked like a fucking big iguana to me.”

Before Florent could ask Xavi more about his thoughts as a demon on bad monster films, the door slammed shut and a heavy tread stalked across the room. “All right, let’s get this fucking thing done already,” said a loud, raspy voice. “Where’s the guy? I’ve got to get back to the restaurant in an hour and stuff a pig with Sandro. And if I’m late, I told him to blame you. He just got his knives sharpened, by the way.”

“Everything’s ready and we were only waiting for you.” Figo came back across the room, closely followed by a demon that was…well, Zlatan was damn tall. The monks and various other chroniclers who’d had run-ins with him over the years hadn’t been lying about that.

Zlatan pulled up short as Didier came out of the backroom. After a brief eyebrow-lift, Zlatan’s face wiped clean of any expression and he returned Didier’s stare. They circled each other for a few paces while Figo stood off to the side and looked a bit like he wished he’d had the meeting outside, where there weren’t flammable books shelved to the ceiling.

“Hi, Zlatan,” Xavi said, edging out from behind Florent. He gave Zlatan a wave that was about as neutral as you could get before bounding off as a fox. “I’ll go get Raúl.”

“Thanks,” Figo said, still watching Zlatan and Didier. He leaned back on the heels of his feet, then sighed and looked at his watch. “Well, whenever you’d like to stop risking dry-eye and blink…”

Didier grinned, then deliberately looked away. He glanced at Figo, then let his gaze wander back around to take in Florent. “I have some virgin’s tears if that would be necessary.”

“Nah.” Zlatan rubbed one finger along his nose, then abruptly swung his arms behind his back. He cracked his shoulders and hands, and then ambled past Didier while looking interested in something in the backroom. “Thanks, though. So you’re a nemesis? I’ve met a couple of you before. There was Wesley and Pippo.”

“I know Pippo,” Didier said calmly. He looked back at Figo. “So we’re settled?”

Figo nodded shortly. Then he lifted his hand and opened his mouth as if to say more, only to instead take a step back. He looked off to the side. “I’ll leave you all to talk, and be in the back office if you need me. Didier…my partner and I did just come back from a long journey, and we’d both appreciate it if we didn’t have to—”

“I have absolutely no intention of destroying the city,” Didier replied. “It would make things difficult for some of my friends as well.”

Before he walked off, Figo gave Didier a thoroughly unconvinced, wary look and Florent couldn’t help but do the same as he went up to the other man. “Not that that’s stopped you before.”

Didier looked sharply at Florent. Then he frowned and raised his head as Raúl and Xavi arrived. A moment later Zlatan returned, having been forcibly expelled from the backroom by Figo. Zlatan’s complaining kept them from starting for another minute, but finally Raúl got around to talking about what he wanted them to do.

“Open a portal and send Drogba to Hell.” Zlatan pretended to look thoughtful, one arm across his chest while he pushed at his chin with his other hand. Then he dropped his hand and used it to jab a finger at Raúl’s carefully blank face. “This is a fucking _stupid_ plan. Did you fucking forget how hard it is to get out of there when you don’t have wings? Or what, is Drogba secretly some fucking weird nephilim?”

“I haven’t forgotten at all. We’re still sneaking up from there, after all,” Raúl said. His voice had a much harder edge to it than when he’d talked to Didier earlier. “I thought Figo—”

“Figo said you wanted help getting at two of your old leaders.” Zlatan paused to send a glower at the back-office door, which smoked a bit. “He _didn’t_ say you were going to do it with a human. And sorry, I might be a demon but I got out of the whole sending people to Hell business a while ago. And that was a fucking pain. I’m not starting over again.”

Didier raised his hand. “Please.” He looked at Raúl first, then at Zlatan. “I am not a ‘fucking weird nephilim.’ But this is not my first time, and I am willing.”

Florent blinked hard. Then he barely turned his own objection into a hiss under his breath. Zlatan and Raúl and Xavi looked over; Didier didn’t, but Florent could sense the man’s surprise.

“Yeah?” Zlatan finally said to Didier. “You’ve done this dance before? Then why do you need me?”

“I’ve never been after a condemned demon before,” Didier replied. “Only damned souls.”

“Excuse me,” Florent said. He smiled politely at the others while getting Didier by the arm, and then pulled the other man to the side. Behind them, the demons had already gotten into a loud argument about the pros and cons of jailbreaking in Hell, so Florent didn’t think that anybody would eavesdrop. “Have you _lost your mind_? Going into Hell? Look, you never went _in_ there physically. It’s not the same thing to project yourself in there and look for a soul, and you damn well know it.”

Didier put his hands on Florent’s arms and Florent pushed them off. Then Didier put them back and tightened his grip so that Florent couldn’t force them away. He looked hard into Florent’s eyes. “I. Am going.”

“ _Why_?” Florent hissed. He already was giving in: he could hear it in his voice, and feel it in the weak way he yanked at Didier’s arms. “They’re not paying you. Didi, you do not do favors like this just out of the goodness of your fucking heart.”

“I don’t?” But then Didier dropped the cute act. He glanced over at the still-arguing demons, then closed in his and Florent’s heads with his arms. “Flo. Listen. This is a chance for me to see for myself how it is down there, at the source of all the fighting. I may not have another one.”

For a moment Florent clutched at the other man. Then he dropped his hands and let out a disgusted grunt. He looked away, then ran his hands over the top of his head and clasped them behind his neck. “I can’t believe you.”

“You do.” Something warm touched Florent’s temple, but when he looked up, he saw it had only been Didier’s fingertips. “You will,” Didier said, and then he turned around.

He went back over to the demons. Zlatan seemed to have come round, though he repeatedly and loudly made it clear that it wasn’t his idea. He still was helping out and Florent wanted to tell the idiot demon that fiery breath or not, if he fucked it up and stranded Didier in there, he was a dead demon.

“We’re gonna do it upstairs,” said somebody at Florent’s shoulder. Xavi. He was looking at Florent with a sort of sympathetic curiosity. “You going to watch?”

“Hell, yes,” Florent muttered. “That moron wants to throw himself into Hell, I’m going to at least be there.”

* * *

For all his blathering about not wanting trouble, Figo was lending them one of his backrooms. Florent supposed that if things went south, doing it there would make it easier for Figo to seal up the portal, but even so. Nobody in their right mind wanted to do business next to a hellhole.

Then again, nobody in their right mind tongued a fox-demon good luck just before sending him to Hell, but there Figo was, making Raúl make little hungry noises in front of half a roomful.

“Hopefully this is not a competition,” Didier said. He waited till Florent had recovered from his start, then picked at something at his wrist. “Flo, listen, if something—”

“Nothing’s going wrong,” Florent snapped, staring at the line of demons behind Figo. If they were _all_ there to send Raúl off, it was going to be midnight before they even got started with the ritual.

Florent didn’t feel any better about the whole plan than he had earlier, but he knew Didier and he knew better than to try and block the other man’s way. So if it had to be done, he wanted to get it over with, and then go home and forget Didier had ever been so…well, if Didier had been anyone else Florent wouldn’t be putting up with it.

“I was not speaking of that.” Didier finally got the thing off his wrist and handed it to Florent. “If something comes up.”

“Oh, those _things_ you’ve been waiting on? You never did mention what those were. And you know that the free place to stay doesn’t include me dealing with your clients,” Florent muttered. He didn’t look at what Didier gave him, but just stuffed it into his pocket. He watched Figo finally let go of Raúl so a wolf-demon and another fox-demon, both looking as disgruntled as Florent felt, could move in on him. “I’ll take a message. That’s it.”

“Florent,” Didier half-sighed.

When Florent turned, Didier kissed him. Properly. Not showing off like Figo, but it was hot and heavy enough to make Florent gasp a little when they broke it off. Then Didier smiled, touched Florent’s cheek, and stepped backwards.

“Take a message,” Didier said.

“I’ve got fucking twelve already, so can we fucking start?” Zlatan snarled, shoving a mobile phone into his jeans.

Raúl wrapped up whatever he was saying to the wolf- and fox-demons, who Florent guessed were his stand-ins while he was gone. He went to stand next to Didier, then twisted into fox-form as Figo handed Zlatan a long-handled knife, with a blade made out of some sort of animal horn. Didier stooped and gently scooped up Raúl; the wolf-demon growled till Figo, on his way out of the room, told him to shut it.

Florent had his choice of two corners from which he could watch. Both were about the same in terms of view but he couldn’t settle on one and slid back and forth till Zlatan told him to knock it off because it was distracting. If just him walking around was going to throw off Zlatan, then the demon shouldn’t even have been doing the spell he was doing, but—Florent caught Didier looking at him and dropped into a tense squat in the corner in which he currently was. Then he sat down and wrapped an arm around his knees.

Zlatan finished drawing a circle around Didier and Raúl using his own blood. He tossed the knife aside—a fox-demon caught it by the handle and spirited it off—and then stood on the other side of the room, just staring at the circle. “You sure you want to go?” he asked.

Didier sighed. “If you don’t have the will to keep going, I can take it from here.”

“Hey, I’ve got fucking will. And I know what it’s like down there,” Zlatan snapped. He glanced up at Didier and Raúl, then grimaced. He had his hand pressed over the cut he’d made on his arm, and for some reason Florent ended up watching that. As Zlatan started to speak in a hissing, teeth-gnashing language, that hand clamped down tighter and tighter till the nails began to elongate into claws.

Then the claws flicked up and there was a bright flash. Florent threw up his arm to protect his eyes. When he lowered it, Didier and Raúl were gone.

* * *

Raúl flinched when his vision cleared. Then he twisted around, hearing Drogba cough. He jumped free of the man’s arms and shifted to human form, and then turned around in time for Drogba to wave off his concern. “I needed a moment,” the human said dryly, pulling out a handkerchief that he then tied over his nose and mouth.

The air was dry and acrid, and burned even Raúl’s nose when he breathed. He tried out a spell that should have cleared that up, but the magic just dissolved away from him. Not surprising, he thought as he looked out over the barren, grey rocks. He spotted a familiar formation—needed a deep breath at _how_ familiar, even if he didn’t regret abandoning it—and pointed at it. “Over there.”

Drogba wasn’t looking at him. Instead the human was taking in their surroundings with a curiously intense gaze. Most people would have been overwhelmed at their first sight of Hell, even if it was one of the quieter areas, like here—but then Drogba had said he’d been here before, if only in spirit. He might be used to the terrible nature of the place. But even so, his stare was oddly free of any sense of awe.

“Oh?” Drogba finally said. He turned to Raúl, saw where Raúl was pointing, and then set his shoulders. He waved his hand for Raúl to show him the way.

* * *

Once Didier and Raúl were through, there wasn’t anything to do but to maintain the circle till they signaled to be brought back, and Florent wasn’t suited for that sort of work. He also needed to eat and shower, and to make some phone calls about why he wouldn’t be available for work the next day either, but he didn’t want to leave the room. He knew he was being irrational and unhelpful.

“Well, would you like a cup of coffee?” Figo asked.

“No,” Florent curtly replied. In all honesty, Figo deserved better. He’d been remarkably kind to Florent just in not kicking him out, and then he’d also gone and shooed away Zlatan before the loudmouth ass could annoy Florent into picking a fight with him. “No. I’m fine.”

Figo clearly didn’t believe that, but just then he had to go answer a phone. He left Florent in the room with the circle and a couple of fox-demons. The fox-demons were there to take care of the circle, and make sure none of the lines were accidentally rubbed out. They huddled together on the other side of the room with the occasional glance at Florent that made Florent roll his eyes. Demons and people, they all acted the same.

“We got them down pretty close, so we should probably hear back from them soon,” Xavi said, suddenly appearing besides Florent.

“Or they get caught and we have to go after them,” Florent muttered. He dug his chin into his knee.

Xavi looked at him for a moment. Then the demon sat down next to him, absently pulling at a shirt-sleeve. “You really want to think like that?”

“No.” Florent looked at him, then blew out his breath and twisted over so that he could lie on his back beside the circle. He put his hands under his head and stared at the ceiling. “No, but I didn’t even want Didier to go. No offense, but how the hell does helping you out help him?”

“We’ve been wondering the same thing,” Xavi said. He moved so that he could look down at Florent. He was trying to give off calming vibes but stopped when Florent muttered that it wasn’t doing any good. “We offered to pay, you know. He said we’d be doing him enough of a favor.”

No, Florent hadn’t known that, but it made enough sense so that he didn’t spend any time being surprised at hearing about it. He just sighed and wondered again why he put up with Didier. The man put him through worse things than his own resurrection.

“It was either him or asking Kaká,” Xavi suddenly said. “Drogba seemed like he’d understand better.”

Florent glanced up at the demon, then grinned sourly. “I don’t know this Kaká well enough to say anything about him, but Didier does understand. I don’t. I don’t know why you’d want back your old leaders, when it looks like you’ve done well enough without them—”

“We owe them.” Xavi’s eyes suddenly turned pure black, no whites and no irises. Then he shifted back and looked across the room. “Sorry. I didn’t meant to—but we owe them. We wouldn’t be up here without them, and they deserve to be here, too. Not stuck in some shithole getting tortured.”

After a couple seconds had passed, Florent grunted so that the demon knew he’d heard him. He rubbed at his eyes, then sighed and dropped his hand over his face. Then he rolled over and pushed himself back up to a sitting position. Frankly, he wasn’t that sympathetic—bad things happened to everybody, but that didn’t mean they’d earned the right to risk other people’s lives—but he was curious and he didn’t have anything else to do. And the other things he could be curious about right now, he didn’t want to be. “What happened?”

“Well, you know…you know it’s been unstable down there for a while, right?” Xavi said. He picked at the dirt under his nails. “Nobody’s really sure what’s causing it, but it used to be…Hell was never nice, but it used to be you knew where things were and who controlled what. Then things started shifting around—you would go to sleep in one place and wake up somewhere else. And the lords started warring. They were fighting for even the bits of wasteland they’d never bothered with before, and we lived in one of those. There’s a lot of us but we’re not one of the strongest tribes down there.”

“Didi said something about that. He said it started with his grandfather’s time, when they started noticing the number of cases going up.” Florent absently put his hands into his pockets, felt something in his left pocket and took it out. When he saw what it was, he missed the next thing Xavi said. “Sorry, what?”

Xavi didn’t reply right away. Instead he was looking at the bracelet in Florent’s hand with wide eyes. “Is that—”

Florent shoved it over his wrist and then pulled his sleeve over it. “Yes.”

After a moment, Xavi seemed to get that Florent wasn’t going to discuss that anymore. He looked at Florent and maybe thought about getting up, but he finally just shrugged. “So we tried to find somewhere else to move. Cesc and Andrés and I found a way up here, and met Figo, and he said he’d help us rehome here. But before we could get everyone up, this demonlord invaded.”

“Which one?”

Xavi’s brows pinched together. “I can’t say its name, unless you want to be fighting hellhounds till they come back. But it rules over those who kill their families.”

“Oh.” Florent knew who Xavi was talking about, and he couldn’t blame the fox-demons for running from it. “So some of you never made it up because of that?”

“No, we all…we got out of there, at least. Not everyone’s gotten up to this plane but they at least got to a different part of Hell. Everyone except…they stayed. Because someone had to hold open the gate on the other end, or else it might’ve collapsed with some of us still in it.” Xavi shut his mouth and stared down at the ground. He didn’t look particularly thrilled about talking about it, and probably he was remembering more than a few bad moments. Then he breathed in deeply and looked over at the circle. “We didn’t hear from them for a while, and assumed they’d died. But then when Joaquín came up a couple months ago, he said he’d heard they’d been taken, not killed. And now that demonlord’s been banished, because Father Thuram beat him and we’ve got a chance to get our lords free before somebody else moves in.”

“Oh,” Florent said again. He could see why the fox-demons would be so eager, but understanding them didn’t necessarily make him feel any better about Didier’s fucking bullheadedness when it came to certain ideas.

Xavi let him have a few minutes to himself. That wolf-demon came up and talked quietly to Xavi for a while, and then they carefully dribbled some more blood onto the circle’s lines, which soaked it up as if the circle was a living thing. They looked at it and talked some more, and then the wolf-demon left.

“If you’re hungry, I can get you a sandwich,” Xavi said. He took in Florent’s slumped form. “Or coffee, or something.”

“Figo already offered. I’m fine.” Florent slipped his fingers under his sleeve and absently tugged at the bracelet.

The demon looked at him a little longer, then turned as another demon handed him a large, oblong bundle wrapped in waxed paper. When Xavi unwrapped it, delicious smells of preserved peppers and sliced meats and cheese rose into the air. Florent’s stomach grumbled and Xavi’s ears twitched into furry form, but he didn’t look over as he quickly devoured half the sandwich.

“Can I ask you something, since we’re sitting here?” Xavi said through a mouthful.

“Why are you sitting here?” Florent retorted. “It’s not going to make them go any faster.”

Xavi glanced at him with raised brows. A little bit of red pepper was stuck to his mouth and his lips were shiny with oil, and damn it, but Florent was hungry.

“I don’t have anything to do but wait,” Florent finally said. Then he jerked his hand behind his back, catching Xavi’s stare at it. He was offended for a moment, and then he sighed and dropped onto his back again. He took out his hand and laid it across his stomach. “Yes, it’s that.”

“Sorry.” Something dropped onto Florent’s stomach. When he looked up, Xavi was busy tearing at his food—Florent spotted the occasional fang spearing through the salami—and didn’t even flinch as Florent unwrapped his own sandwich. “I’m kinda young. You and this other guy are the only resurrections I’ve seen so far.”

Florent snorted as he pulled off a piece of his sandwich. He didn’t have salami but some pale meat that smelled faintly smoky. Chicken. It was good, but then, a worn-out car tire probably would have tasted good to him right now. “You want, I could show you a whole army. You just need to know where to go.”

Xavi blinked at his sandwich. He frowned, carefully pinched its ragged lips together and then wadded the last bit into his mouth.

“It was a gang war, back in my old neighborhood,” Florent said tersely. “This old man, he brought something from his birth country with him. It shouldn’t have gotten used but it was and we were coming back by the dozens when Didier got there. He got rid of it. And the bastard who’d used it.”

“Oh. Okay.” After wiping off his mouth on the waxed paper, Xavi wadded it up in his hands, then gave his palms a little twist as he slapped them together. When he pulled them back apart, the paper was gone. “So can I ask something?”

Florent looked sharply at the demon. Then he snorted at himself for thinking it was going to be so straightforward. Demons weren’t what the books said they were, he’d been with Didier long enough to know that, but demons were demons. “All right, what?”

“Why the fuck would a human go to Hell, and not even ask anything for it?” Xavi said.

The laugh that burst from Florent sounded bad even to him. He sat up and was a little surprised to see that the circle still looked all right. The fox-demons across the way were a bit frizzed out, and when Florent turned back, Xavi’s eyes had widened, but the circle was fine. Florent laid back down. He had some more of his sandwich. “Because Didi’s got this fucked-up—he was supposed to send me back. I wasn’t supposed to come back in the first place, and when he broke up that witch-doctor thing, it was supposed to reverse everything. Except I don’t know…he did something.”

Before Florent realized what he was doing, he’d dropped the sandwich and gripped his wrist over the bracelet. He felt the sandwich slide off his stomach and swore, but it was Xavi who grabbed it before it fell onto one of the lines and smeared it. Then Xavi handed it back without even looking angry about the close-call, and Florent almost didn’t take it.

He finally did, but he just shoved it behind him and rolled over onto his side, facing the circle. Then he held out his wrist and picked at the red thread around it. “This thing, this was supposed to be my fate. This little fucking thing, like something you’d buy from a secondhand store. It was dragging me back to my grave and Didi cut it and this is what was left around my ankle. That should’ve gotten him all sorts of shit down on his head, but it was like…what was going on there, the cops didn’t care, the politicians didn’t care and even fucking Heaven and Hell didn’t care.”

“They say there’s so much fighting over territory down in Hell that demons aren’t really doing their jobs up here anymore,” Xavi said.

“Yeah, that’s what Didi thinks.” Florent picked at the thread again, then scratched at his wrist. “He thinks that it’s a sign, that things like Andriy and Zlatan and even me can even happen. It’s not just not following the rules. It’s that there’s nobody _there_ to care. Like…maybe the devil’s gone, and if he is, then…”

He scratched at his wrist again, then grimaced and sat up while holding it. The skin there was oddly irritated and when he looked closer, he could see a faint redness where the bracelet had laid. And the bracelet was warm to touch, as if it was made of flesh and not mere thread.

Xavi was already hunched at the edge of the circle, peering intently at some of the symbols. Then he looked up and hissed sharply at the demons on the other side, sending them running off in all directions.

“Has it been that long already?” Florent said, knowing it hadn’t. The bracelet was uncomfortably warm to touch now, but he twisted his fingertips in it. “What’s going on?”

Figo appeared in the doorway, followed closely by a fox-demon who was giving orders—Xavi didn’t look completely thrilled about that, but he got up and went over to conference with this Villa. Then Zlatan showed up, irritated and with phone in hand.

“…look, Paolo, I’m sorry, you can even tell Sandro that, but there’s kind of a fucking situation here and…” Zlatan’s eyes bulged in a way that would’ve been hilarious any other time, and then he screwed up his face and held his phone away from it while he yelled at it “…so I’ll fucking microwave it when I get back! Cold pizza’s not the end of the world!”

“Not what you said last week,” Villa muttered.

Zlatan snapped shut his phone, looking at Villa’s neck like he’d like to give it the same treatment. He glanced at the circle, then at Figo. Then he ducked his head and pulled his shoulders up towards his ears, looking as close to defensive as a giant demon could.

“You didn’t actually tell them what we’re doing, did you?” Figo said, his tone both deeply irritated and deeply resigned.

“Did you or didn’t you want me to do this?” Zlatan snapped. “If I’d told them, I would have had Sandro going on and on about how dangerous it was and what happened the _last_ time, like it was my fucking fault some demonlord had a grudge match with Paolo, and then Paolo would want to know—”

Figo’s expression hadn’t changed at all. “And now they’re coming over because they know you never turn down fresh-baked pizza.”

“Oh, shut up and let’s do this already.” Zlatan started to pull up his sleeve. “We’ve got probably fifteen minutes before they show up.”

“We’ve got less than five before this thing destabilizes!” Villa hissed. He shoved Zlatan in the waist, then pushed that horn knife at the other demon without looking. “Hurry up!”

Zlatan looked at Villa, then at the knife that had almost stabbed him in the gut. Then he opened his mouth, only for Figo to mutter something at him that made him yank the knife from Villa and slice open his arm. He started dripping blood over the circle.

Xavi had edged back round to Florent, who grabbed his arm. By now the thread was so hot that Florent had wrapped his cuff around it, but could still feel the heat. “What’s going on?” Florent asked. “Are you bringing them back already?”

“That’s what they’re signaling—” Xavi started.

Too many things happened at once. The lines on the floor flared so brightly that Florent threw himself back into the wall with his arm up. The braceleted arm, he realized, but already the white fire had roared towards him. His wrist felt like someone had clapped a chain of blazing-hot iron around it and was yanking hard on it, pulling the flesh off even as it sizzled. He heard shouts: Figo’s voice, then Zlatan’s and a third voice he didn’t recognize. Someone hit him on the head and he fell onto his knees. His hand went out and touched something electrified.

The shock flung him back. He hit the wall again, his teeth rattling, and dropped his head between his knees. A second later he lifted it. His sight was full of spots, but through them, he could just about make out three forms standing in the middle of the room.

“Pep!” Xavi exclaimed, voice harsh with disbelief. He was somewhere near Florent but then a blurry black streak leaped out at one of the forms.

Another, much larger black shape jumped on the tallest form and brought it down to the ground. Florent blinked hard and then finally made out a black wolf eagerly licking at the face of some animal that was the same size, but with a fox’s face and stilt-like legs. And then there was Raúl.

“Where the hell is Didier?” Florent snapped. He yanked himself up onto his feet and crawled forward, uncaring of the circle, the demons, of anything except that they’d brought back three and none of them was Didier. “ _Where is he_?”

“He—” Raúl started.

Then another flash filled the room, and when it cleared, Florent had his hands on something. He grabbed it and it had two legs and two arms and a face he knew, and he buried his head in its chest, relieved. The bracelet on his arm wasn’t burning anymore.

* * *

Luís flipped a few more pages before his brows leaped. “Ah,” he said. He turned the book around so that everyone could see the large, glossy photo. “Maned wolf.”

“Great.” Villa gave the man a few sarcastic claps. Orange sparks flew from his hands and fizzled out dangerously close to the books piled in front of Luís. “Helps to know what you stupid humans are going to think they are.”

“David,” Raúl muttered. Personally he also felt that Luís’ eccentricities were picking the wrong time to come out, but getting on Luís’ bad side wasn’t going to _discourage_ those. “So then we found them, but just as we’d broken the holding spell, there was another attack. We decided it was best to get out as fast as we could. And we did. We didn’t do anything else, so I don’t know…I don’t know what might have happened. It might have been in transit, because we were so rushed…”

Mori’s chin abruptly dropped onto Raúl’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault,” he said strongly, wrapping his arms around Raúl’s waist.

“Hey.” Silva had apparently come in with Mori, and interrupted just as Raúl was turning towards the other demon. He looked uncertain about how to begin, but Raúl noticed the hard step on Villa’s toes just as Villa had been about to make another comment. Then Silva flinched and jerked his head up to fix his eyes a little too hard on Raúl. “So…we’ve got the humans in the guest bedroom. Zinedine had a look and thinks Drogba’s fine, just really drained.”

“And what does Malouda think?” Figo asked, looking up from his book.

The grimace Silva made was answer enough, and enough to make Villa start towards the door with a set look on his face. Thankfully, Silva had a good hold on Villa’s arm and was quick with the importuning eyes. “David, please don’t. He’s just upset and it’s not really his fault. Drogba’s kind of…well, catatonic. I think I’d be upset if you were like that.”

“Still doesn’t mean he gets to start throwing curses around,” Villa muttered, stepping back. “The man volunteered. Nobody was holding his soul hostage. If a nemesis even has one.”

“Drogba has a very fine soul, and would not appreciate anyone meddling with it, even in thought,” Luís said in a calm, almost casual tone. He put down the book and bent down so his head was beneath the table, apparently unaffected by everyone’s flinch. “So how long is Malouda out for?”

Silva did some adding on his fingers. “Couple hours. We got him a sleeping bag and a pillow so he shouldn’t be too cramped. Xavi and Cesc are keeping an eye on him. Oh, and Zinedine said he was going out for a bit. Something about a better view, in case he needed to ‘do’ something.”

For a moment Luís, now upright with a new book, looked faintly chagrined. Then he shrugged and flipped to the back of his book. “Damn it. Well, hopefully he doesn’t get tangled up with any angels. I’m not really in the mood to save them and Gianluigi was probably Zlatan’s last one.”

“Where is Zlatan?” Raúl asked, suddenly noticing the demon’s absence. “He would have had to be here for the—”

“You!” Sandro burst into the room, clearly bent on a full-blown screaming match.

However, he seemed to have mistaken their reflections in a fortuitously-placed mirror for their actual selves. He stopped abruptly upon realizing his mistake, made a sharp turn to face where they really were and then…

By the time Zlatan and a concerned-looking Paolo had crowded into the doorway, Sandro had more or less lost his anger and was instead staring at something under the table with—Raúl nearly thought the angel was going to be sick. Then he jerked up his head. His and Raúl’s eyes met before Sandro abruptly turned away, saying something in a low voice to Paolo. Sandro went back into the hall. After a moment, a puzzled Zlatan went after him.

Paolo stayed. He had paled a good deal and swallowed visibly a few times, but he stepped into the room with commendable composure. “I…this looks like it might be a private matter, but may I…”

“If you can help I’d be endlessly grateful to you,” Raúl said. He heard Villa suck in his breath and felt Mori’s hands stiffen on him; that sort of phrasing could end up being a promise that Paolo could collect on. And Raúl would have no objection to that. “Your time in Hell…”

“As far as anyone can tell, they’re healthy,” Luís remarked into the tense silence. 

He’d not taken things so lightly at first, but of all of them he’d calmed down the quickest, and now he and Paolo seemed to be the only ones able to face the subject with anything resembling equanimity. Even Raúl couldn’t bring himself to look under the table.

“I doubt that there’d be marks, if they’re who I think they are,” Paolo said. His voice had risen a little, but he came forward and went down on his knees before the table without any hesitation. “Guardiola? Hierro?”

Raúl realized he’d taken hold of Mori’s hands and was twisting them brutally. He let them go and made himself move away from the other demon, who hadn’t made a single noise of protest. He breathed in, and then got down and took his own look under the table.

Pep and Fernando were in about the same positions as when they’d come through—and before that, when Raúl and Drogba had finally figured out which pit held them. They didn’t have any visible injuries but they were in animal form and no amount of coaxing from anyone could get an intelligible response from them. Or any response, really—they would move when made to, and responded sluggishly to stimuli, but when left on their own, they immediately settled into a hunched, staring pose. And the look in their eyes—Raúl still couldn’t face it. He stared at their paws. Pep’s left hindpaw was pinching the tip of Hierro’s tail between it and his belly. Raúl blinked.

“I take it this is trauma?” Luís asked quietly.

“I was…I think I was like this for a while,” Paolo said after a moment. “After they leave you alone…because I think they forget, there are so many down there. They forget who they have, and they leave you and sooner than you think you even lose the pain. You lose the sense that you are something…separate. Something with a self.”

“We went back as soon as we could,” Raúl said. He was surprised in a distant sort of way how harsh and thin his voice sounded. “We tried. I’m so sorry. I’m…”

“They can’t hear you,” Villa said. Then he grimaced and looked down, even before Silva poked him.

Paolo pursed his lips. “They probably aren’t listening.” He moved a little nearer, then gingerly extended one hand with the palm out. He put it so close to Pep’s muzzle that the two of them nearly touched. Pep’s eyes moved to track it but otherwise there was no reaction, and none again when Paolo eased back.

“How did you break out of it?” Silva blurted out.

He almost immediately clapped his hand over his mouth, but Paolo barely seemed to hear him. The angel got up, still looking under the table. “I don’t think that that would work,” he murmured. “I…a reminder. They need a reminder.”

“ _What_ reminder?” Raúl asked harshly.

Before Paolo could answer, Luís had dropped under the table and then scrambled quickly backwards as something dark and snarling lunged at him. Raúl instinctively threw himself between Luís and whatever it was, and was smashed hard to the floor. His head rang. He dimly heard Mori’s shout but he was busy with the vicious teeth snapping together near his neck. They went back a little and he got up his arms, bracing himself for the feeling of ripping flesh…and instead got a moist nose prodding at his forearm.

After remembering to breathe again, Raúl cautiously lifted his head to look over his arm. He found himself staring into two black eyes. He lowered his arm and Fernando actually stretched out his neck as if to sniff at Raúl. But at the last minute Fernando instead raised his head to stare at something over Raúl’s head. He settled back into that too-still pose of his.

“Sorry,” Luís said. He had Pep bundled into his arms—Pep’s eyes had visibly widened and were fixed on Fernando—and now carefully bent down so that Pep and Fernando could touch noses, if they wanted. They didn’t, but when Luís straightened up again, Fernando merely stiffened a little as he stood over Raúl. “Anyway, I think—”

“Sorry? _Sorry_?” Mori growled. “I know you’ve done a lot for us but if you ever pull something like that again, I swear I’ll—”

“They need a bath,” Luís said, while all around them the room flickered and shimmered with power. He didn’t let the real extent of his power leak out too often, but when he did, they listened. “They smell like Hell. I don’t know if that’ll help or not with the shock, but it’ll help keep anyone from tracking them here. And I don’t want to fight a war right now. All right?”

Mori looked as if he had a few more choice words to say, but thankfully he saw Raúl’s slight gesture and subsided. He came over and gave Raúl a hand up, and then fell back to watch Luís with smoldering eyes. Inside Raúl sighed—they really didn’t need any more arguments between themselves—but he forgot about it when he looked down at Fernando. He hesitated, then cautiously leaned down and got his arms under Fernando’s belly. Fernando shifted and Raúl sucked in his breath…but nothing else happened.

“I think the sink in the laundry room might fit him,” Luís said quietly to Raúl, with a nod at Fernando.

“All right.” Raúl looked at Fernando again, at the way he and Pep were staring at each other as if that was all they knew, and then he swallowed hard. “All right. David, please…go tell…”

“I’ll take care of them,” Villa said with a curt flick of the hand. He and Silva turned around and went out the door first.

Paolo had turned to go as well, but he lingered a little longer. He stared at Pep, biting his lip. “I’m sorry,” he abruptly said. “I can’t—I can’t explain very well. If I could—”

“No, I appreciate what you’ve said very much. Thank you.” Then Raúl twisted so that Fernando’s legs wouldn’t catch the table edge. He let Paolo go out ahead of him, then followed Luís down the hall.

* * *

“You didn’t say what you were doing,” Sandro muttered.

Zlatan rolled his eyes. He could do that, since the angel was scrunched up in one corner of the couch, too busy squeezing his nose between his knees to notice what Zlatan was doing. He could do that and then he could look at Sandro’s bowed head and grimace at himself. “I told you, Figo wanted me to help out the foxes. They had somebody stuck in a part of Hell they couldn’t get to by themselves.”

Sandro didn’t respond. After another moment of silence, Zlatan got worried enough to lean down and try to peer into the angel’s face; Sandro lifted his head enough to glare at Zlatan but didn’t try and bite off Zlatan’s head, like he should’ve been doing.

“You were fucking busy. You told me to get out and stop getting in your way, remember?” Zlatan said. He got down into a squat and prodded Sandro’s shin. Then he sighed. “What the fuck is this, anyway? Why are you so—”

“They looked the way Paolo would look sometimes. After we got out, and before you finally got round to showing up again. Like he was _back_ there, and I could never—I always had to wait for him to snap out of it. I couldn’t ever do anything.” Then Sandro made an irritated noise and abruptly unwound himself, his elbow nearly catching Zlatan across the bridge of his nose. “Never mind. I should’ve just waited for you to come back to yell at you.”

Zlatan grinned. “That’s more like it.”

But it wasn’t. Not quite, not with the way Sandro didn’t meet Zlatan’s eyes when he looked over, not with the brittle twist to Sandro’s frown. Sandro started to rise, then stopped and looked past Zlatan’s shoulder. When Zlatan turned, Paolo was standing there and gazing at the two of them. Paolo wasn’t really doing anything, just being there, but something in his eyes—Zlatan had forgotten. What Paolo had been like, when they’d been locked together in that room. And he hadn’t realized till now how different Paolo had become since then, and how much more he liked that.

“I…” Paolo breathed in strongly, pressing one hand to his hip “…I would like to go home. I can’t help. And—Zlatan, I don’t know if you’ve anything left to do…”

“Nah. I wrapped up when we brought them back. Whatever the fuck’s wrong now, it’s none of my business,” Zlatan said, getting to his feet. He rubbed at his nose. “Listen, I didn’t really think it was a good idea, but Figo insisted and I kind of owed him.”

Paolo smiled tentatively. “It’s not my place to tell you who you can help. I’m sorry, this isn’t your problem at all, and if I could help it—”

“Oh, forget it.” Zlatan ruffled Paolo’s hair till the angel’s smile lost that shivery, fragile edge to it. Then he grabbed Sandro by the arm and hauled him up, and while Sandro was still bitching about not giving him warning for that, opened the door. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Florent woke up with an aching neck and a head that felt filled with sharp rocks that pounded into his brain whenever he moved. He swallowed and something about that was wrong, and a moment later he realized that his mouth didn’t taste as bad as it should have. And then he remembered he hadn’t gotten drunk, but—he shot up and the first thing he saw was Didier, and he breathed out. Then he saw that Didier wasn’t moving and he breathed in, and was about to roundly curse the fox-demons and Figo and Hell when somebody touched his shoulder.

“So this is some food and water.” Xavi held onto the tray, and onto Florent’s shoulder. “If you try to throw it at me, I’m gonna put you back out.”

After a moment, Florent nodded curtly and twisted his shoulder out from Xavi’s grip. He was on a sleeping bag, next to the bed on which Didier was lying. He got up on his knees for a better look at the other man and did note that Didier’s color was much better. When Didier had first come through, his skin had been so gray that Florent had thought he had gotten covered in ash.

“Do you want to hear what happened yet?” Xavi asked.

“No. Not if it’s just what your friend says happened,” Florent said. He put his hands on the bed, then winced and took one off to press at his cricked back. Then he got himself slowly onto the bed so that he could sit next to Didier. He heard a click and glanced over his shoulder, but it was only Xavi setting the tray down on the bedside table. “You got what you wanted. Now leave—”

“We could’ve trapped him into it instead of asking,” Xavi said sharply. He met Florent’s glower with a calm but unyielding gaze. “We knew about you. The angels might’ve missed you before but we could’ve let them know about you, and made him help us. We didn’t.”

Florent wanted to hit the demon but barely managed to remember how bad of an idea that that was. Instead he just nodded and hoped that Xavi would go away. Even if the demon had a point, it wasn’t what Florent wanted to hear right now.

Xavi did go, finally, and Florent was left alone with Didier. The fucking bullheaded idiot. Florent picked up one of Didier’s hands and it was strange how warm it was. And how peaceful Didier looked. He could calm himself till he was like a statue, but nobody who looked him in the eye ever believed in that calm. Not after they’d seen the restlessness that always swirled there, and sometimes flashed into white-hot anger—but now Didier’s eyes were closed and he was at rest, and looked almost as if it suited him.

“He should wake in a few minutes,” someone said to Florent’s back. “He drained himself nearly to his soul.”

It was the hawk-demon, Florent saw when he turned around. Smelling like ichor, and somewhere hot and dusty. Florent didn’t really want to talk to him either but something about the demon’s cool eyes made him hold his tongue.

“There’ll be no one after you for this,” the demon added after a moment.

“He,” Florent said. It stopped the demon from going, though as he looked back, Florent turned away to stare at Didier’s face. “He went away for a week, a little after he’d kept them from taking me back. And he said the same thing when he came back, but he’s never told me what it cost. How much you pay to keep someone who deserves it out of there.”

Something made a fluttering sound, and on the wall behind the bed Florent glimpsed two huge dark curving things. Then they vanished. So did the rest of the demon’s shadow, and if the demon hadn’t spoken Florent would have thought he’d left. “There’s no price—”

“They say that demons like you, ones with wings, that you were never part of the original war. That that’s why you can fly to any plane you want,” Florent said. “Why you sit it out.”

“I charge no fees,” the hawk-demon replied after a moment. “I don’t care for war of any kind. I only care that those I consider my own aren’t hurt. You are a guest of my mate, and your friend helped some of my family. That’s all. For anything else you have to look to someone else.”

Then Florent looked up. He was just in time to see the demon leaving, and when he looked back down, he looked at rumpled sheets. He froze, then breathed sharply out and smacked his hand forward into something. Then he raised his head and looked into Didier’s open eyes.

“I’ve felt better,” Didier finally said. He put up his hand just as Florent hissed at him, and the touch against Florent’s cheek was enough to keep him from flinging himself off the bed. Then Didier dropped the hand and began to look around. He spotted the tray right away, pulled himself over to it and began to eat. “Did the others—”

“They’re fine.” Florent pressed his curled hands into the mattress and stared at the other man. “You did it. You goddamn arrogant bastard, you went to Hell and came back. And all because—because you just _have_ to know if it’s really on. As if it fucking matters, when everybody thinks it is and fights like it is and—”

Didier looked up, and his eyes were tired beyond belief. He touched Florent’s cheek again, then lowered his hand to the red thread around Florent’s wrist. “I do need to know,” he said softly. “I need to know. I’ve told you before that you owe me nothing. It was my decision not to let you go, and that lies on my head and not yours.”

“You think _you_ can end the whole thing, you damn fool,” Florent snorted. His voice cracked and he wiped something wet away from his left eye.

“No. No. I stopped thinking that a long time ago.” Didier slipped his thumb under the thread so it rested against Florent’s skin, directly over the pulse. “I’m sorry you won’t leave me.”

Florent hit the man with his other hand. Then he grabbed Didier by the back of the neck with it and yanked the man forward so that he could bury his face in Didier’s shoulder. He felt Didier’s fingers close around his other hand, tangling up in the thread till he knew it was cutting into both their flesh.

“Did you find any answers, at least?” Florent asked after a while. He breathed a little slower.

“What I think now is…is that this is not a war between two sides, and that there will not be a last battle on Judgment Day. What I hope. Or else this is only a war like any other one, for power and for victory, and with no real peace to follow it.” Then Didier moved his head a little and his mouth brushed against Florent’s ear. It could have been accidental. “I think the real war is inside, with every person, and every person has their own day of reckoning, when they will have to account for themselves. And if so, then perhaps peace is possible.”

“You’re not going to die on me.” Florent took his head off Didier’s shoulder and looked the man in the eye. He tightened his hand on Didier’s neck, then abruptly pushed his face into Didier’s shoulder again. “You can chase your damn justice all you want, but _I_ say you did the right thing, helping me, and you’re going to stay and make disgusting food in my kitchen and tell me what to do with my second life.”

He wasn’t the judge, of course. But Didier didn’t mention that. He just let Florent hold onto him for a while. Soon enough they’d get up, and Didier would probably make obscure jokes with Figo before getting them out of there and going back to work chasing down other people’s sins, and driving Florent crazy in the process. But at least he was giving Florent a moment, this time. Florent held onto it as long as he could.

* * *

“Sorry.” Raúl handed the bottle back to Luís, who replaced it in the shower rack. Then he dried his hands on his towel. “I just…”

“I think Zinedine’s come back. I’d better go see if he’s killed somebody I know,” Luís suddenly said. He briskly folded up the other towels and stuffed them under his arm, then made as if to go out. Then he stopped. He looked odd, and it took a moment for Raúl to identify his expression as uncertain. “I’m not trying to be rude.”

Raúl blinked, then smiled. “I know. Someone has to keep his head, and we’re not very good at that at the moment. I’m sorry about that.”

Luís shrugged and made a dismissive gesture with his left hand. “Oh, it’s just part of being in a relationship. When I make sure Zinedine’s calmed down and isn’t about to stab his beak into anyone, you can go try and apologize to him for making him worried enough to go out.” He looked at Raúl for a moment. “You did know that Zinedine basically considers all of you as extended family, didn’t you? I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s managed to adopt a few kits behind my back.”

“Now that I’ve thought about it,” Raúl said slowly. Then he smiled again at Luís, the weight on him slightly lighter.

Unfortunately that didn’t last longer than it took for Luís to leave and Raúl to go out into the bedroom, where they’d settled Pep and Fernando after the bath. The two of them didn’t look any different—Raúl had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep himself under control. It wasn’t even a day yet, and was beyond too early for him to start despairing.

He sat down on the bed next to Fernando with his back to them. After another moment he put his elbows on his knees and his face into his hands. He breathed out into his palms, hard. His fingers inched into his hair, and then he dug his nails in there. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I should’ve gone back sooner. We thought you were dead—but of course you weren’t, you’re both better than that. We should have checked for ourselves, anyway.”

Nothing. Not that Raúl should be expecting anything. It was perfectly reasonable for them to need a while to recover, and in the meantime he just had to keep doing what he’d been doing. He knew he could take care of the tribe, more or less.

“I haven’t lost anyone, at least,” Raúl muttered. Then he snorted. “Well, except you two. I should’ve known—I should’ve _known_. It’s my fault. I was too busy—there was Luís and then he got engaged to Zinedine, and I had that idiotic spat with Villa, and…none of that’s any excuse. I’m just not as good. I was distracted and I almost forgot, for a while. I didn’t want to _think_ about it, what happened. I wanted to forget all about it. But Joaquin let us know you were alive, and then the Fallen One reminded me that you can’t really leave it behind. You can’t run from Hell.”

Then Raúl looked up. He’d thought he’d heard something in the hall, but he didn’t sense anyone. He still glanced over to see that the other two were…were still there. They were. This time Raúl made himself meet their stare.

“We’re demons. None of us want to be part of it, but you can’t just sit back, can you?” He was rambling now, Raúl knew, but he couldn’t stop himself. He hadn’t admitted what he was saying now to anyone, even to Luís who understood almost _too_ much for a human—and suddenly it was coming out after he’d held it down for so long. “You have to fight just to stay out of the fighting. It’s ridiculous, but it’s…how it is, and what we are. But listen, if you can. It’s good here. It’s a good home, and it’s worth fighting for, and I promise I’m never going to let it get taken away, or make you stay back again. I promise I’ll fight for you this time.”

Raúl unexpectedly ran out of breath at the end and had to gasp a bit for air. It made his head move and at first he figured that it was just a trick of the light, because he was moving so it looked like they were moving. Then he finished drawing in his breath, and Fernando was still rising onto his feet. He stared as the other demon came towards him.

And then he’d shifted, unable to hold onto his human shape anymore and he was curled up with his head tucked down, like he was a frightened kit again. He felt something warm and rough run over his back and he whimpered. The tongue came again, and this time bathed his left ear before rising. A snout pushed up against the other side of his head, nuzzling gently and something that’d been clenched up in Raúl for so long that he’d almost forgotten what it was like to have it free…just gave. And he knew it’d be all right.

* * *

“Well, it explains why Drogba was rather nice about Kaká interrupting him,” Luís said, pouring out the coffee. “If he’s got his own little moment of rule-breaking to hide—not that he’s really hiding it. I don’t think I totally understand his helping out the foxes, though.”

Henrik pulled his mug towards him and began to dose it with sugar and cream. Then he glanced out at the shoproom; Luís had only finished shutting up for the day and someone had tried the door before seeing the ‘Closed’ sign. He shrugged and looked back at Luís. “Having looked at Malouda’s records, I suspect it was at least partly to wipe his tracks with respect to that man. It was the same demon who was holding the fox-lords, who should have taken Malouda.”

Luís paused in adding sugar to his coffee and felt his wards tingle slightly. He dropped in the cube and then picked up his spoon to stir it in. “Drogba is one to reckon with, but he took on a demonlord in Hell. And survived. That normally shouldn’t be possible. And Lilian did the same a few weeks ago—though he was on this plane, and only doing an exorcism. But still. Some of the demonlords are weaker than they should be, and some angels aren’t coming as often as they should.”

“It’s different now, at least in Hell,” Henrik said soberly. He stared into his coffee. “I’m not Librarian merely because I like books, you know. It seemed that no one else was considering what a great resource would be lost if no one guarded it, and it needs guarding these days. There’s so much fighting, and very little attention to anything else. And Hell isn’t—shouldn’t be mere anarchy. There’s a reason it has rules…yes?”

“Ah.” The demon standing in the doorway was tall and slender, and his brushy tail flicked nervously behind him. “You’re Luís Figo?”

“Yes.” For a moment Luís couldn’t place him. Then he grinned. “Oh! You’re Pep—or Fernando? Raúl said you might be down today.”

After a moment’s staring, the demon twitched sharply and lifted a hand. His voice sounded a bit rusty, and he moved as if his joints needed oiling, especially when he tried to smile. He still looked quite good for someone imprisoned in Hell till recently. “Pep. I…I thought it was time I…thanked my host.”

“That’d be Luís, so I think I’ll just take my coffee out on the roof,” Henrik said. When Luís looked at him, Henrik had on an expression as bland as the cream in the pot beside him. He picked up his cup and made his way around Luís. “I come up here because it reassures me that not everything changes.”

Zlatan’s smartass tendencies didn’t fall far from the tree. Luís almost replied in kind, but then he noticed the rather lost gaze Pep was turning on his surroundings. He flipped over another mug and started to fill it with coffee. “Never mind the thanks for now,” he said. “Come sit and have a drink. I’m sure your head’s probably still spinning. Raúl’s out at the moment, but I think he said he’d be back on the hour, and until then—”

“I’d like to talk to you,” Pep said, coming over. He sat down where Henrik had been and looked at the coffee, then at Luís. For all his obvious confusion he was handling himself well, and his eyes showed both intelligence and caution. “If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Luís replied, smiling, and he handed the demon the mug. “Not at all.”

**Author's Note:**

> At one point I had this whole backstory for Didier and Florent, and they were going to kind of be like a darker mirror image to the Thuram and Kaká partnership, but that never got written.


End file.
